


Mint Grows in the Shade

by tanukiham



Series: The Other Hawke [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Death, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Selwyn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making friends in the Gallows is difficult, when one is used to hiding.</p><p>OR</p><p>Varania finds that life in the Gallows is much like slavery, though it has some benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An interlude for The Other Hawke, between Act II and Act III.

For the first month she is confined to her room. It is small and dark, and smells strongly of the harbour, but it is hers alone, and the first night a young man with eyes like clear cut-glass shows her how to wedge the chair up under the door handle, to keep out unwanted visitors.

Varania finds this surprising – not that it is necessary but that the mages dare.

She is not left alone; there is a constant attendance of enchanters and senior enchanters, asking her questions and making her cast this thing or that. The spells are not difficult though the names are unfamiliar – she will have to learn a whole new language of spellcasting – and they are shocked to learn that while her spoken Arcanum is flawless, she cannot read it.

And then there are the other mages, slipping in one by one to bring her things. Harmless things: a salted pastry, a wooden comb, handkerchiefs and slivers of soap. A paper envelope containing the mildest of sleeping powders – powder, she is told in a whisper, because an empty phial is too difficult to explain away. She knows what this is, and knows it for more than simple kindness. _You are one of us,_ they say, without anything so crude as words, and, _you are not alone_ , but also, _we can be your allies_ , and, _soon you will have to choose a side_.

It is the same everywhere, in this Circle or the slave quarters back home. Always, always, the shifting sands of allegiance, so treacherous underfoot.

This is something her brother never understood.

When she is released they take her first to a bathing chamber that is pitiful in its extent, and then to a room where they tell her she will face a demon.

It is a test. The other mages have whispered as much, warned her in murmurs and mutters, and she is supposed to be afraid.

Varania is not afraid of the demon. Nor, honestly, is she afraid of failure. The penalty for failing their test is death. As though they have never used _that_ before.

So she drinks from their cup, lies down on the slab, and waits while they conjure a way into the Fade -- then it is just another dream, with a Fade-scape and a demon that is, frankly, disappointing. It offers her freedom. Freedom, she knows, is a lie. Then it offers her power and that, too, is a lie – there is no power to be had from letting a demon ride you, only another kind of slavery.

When it offers her Leto she becomes angry because this lie, at least, cuts like a knife, and then she finds that her talent, unsophisticated as it is, can be stoked by her anger into an inferno.

The demon burns. Varania lives.

She wakes to find a Templar (the blunt one; her brother’s friend) peering into her face, and she lies still, waiting for the sword, because either she has passed their test or they had meant to kill her all along.

The sword does not come. She is free to go.

Such as freedom is, here. She cannot leave the Gallows. She cannot wander the halls after curfew. Still, it is freedom enough that she is permitted to walk unheeded during daylight, though the other mages warn her not to be caught alone.

This proves difficult. In order to avoid being alone she must tag along behind the others. It is unusual, she discovers, to come so friendless into the Circle. The years spent in the apprentice quarters forge a network of bonds with peers and mentors alike, and even mages transferred from other Circles know how the hierarchy works and how to find their way amongst their own kind. (It is, she thinks, the difference between a slave born into her slavery and one taken from her freedom; this is something she can comprehend.)

A Harrowed mage (for that is what they call the ones who do not fail their initiation) who was never an apprentice, Varania is without anchors, without context, without friends. So she endeavours to remember the ones who were kind to her before she was Harrowed, and seek them out.

Selwyn is the first. He is hard to miss, boisterous when the Templars are not watching, quietly mischievous when they are. He pranks them; they do not seem to know it, though they all look at him with suspicion. He takes what she thinks are dangerous risks, fanning ice across the backs of their helmets where it melts and drips down their necks, slicking the stones of the corridors so that they slip and stumble. Always when they look for a culprit, he is innocently engaged, and he plays so well at his innocence that they nearly always overlook him.

At first Varania despises him for this. Someone will be blamed. It is selfish to endanger one's fellow slaves (because that is what they are, all of them, just slaves, though no-one says it aloud) to put them at risk of punishment. Still, when this does come to pass, she is surprised by how he deals with it.

It happens in the library. She does not see how it happens, but everyone hears the crash as the Templar goes over in a clatter of armour. Selwyn is, of course, buried in a book, but the faint blush of magic lingers around his hands as he peers up over the cover, and she knows first that it was _his_ doing, and second that all the other mages know this too.

Still, when the Templar rallies himself, struggling to his feet in a fury, no-one calls Selwyn out. Further, when the Templar rounds angrily on a quartet of apprentices, fat little things in their robes, giggling hysterically, no-one names Selwyn as the culprit.

And Selwyn, wonder of wonders, stands up.

“Ser Knight! Are you hurt? Maker, that was quite a fall. Do you require healing?”

The Templar turns on him, and even through his helmet she can feel the heat of his anger.

Selwyn does not flinch, simply holds up his hands, letting his sleeves fall back to bare his fragile wrists. “Are you well, ser? Not dizzy, are you? It must get hot in that armour; I know I'd feel dizzy from just an hour in it. Maybe you ought to take it _off_.”

And she sees the way he leans back, lifting his chin to expose his throat, so weak and vulnerable that it is almost painful to look at.

The Templar hesitates. “I'm not _dizzy_. One of _them_ pushed me,” and he jerks a thumb at the apprentices, gone quiet and fearful in a cluster together.

“Them?” Selwyn seems utterly bewildered by this. “But they're so _small_. I don't think … no, you must be mistaken. There's no shame,” and he lowers his voice to a whisper that carries throughout the quiet of the library, “in fainting. It happens to us all. On a day like today I feel faint myself.” He fans his face with one hand, and there is such audacity in it that she cannot help but be impressed.

“I didn't faint,” the Templar protests, but Selwyn has stepped in and taken his arm, and despite the helmet and the armour, it is obvious how disconcerting this is for the knight, towering over the mage like a steel giant.

“There, ser, _there_. If you need help getting to the infirmary, allow me. Come away, before anyone is foolish enough to think you _foundering_ in his heat.”

“I'm perfectly all right, you idiot!” The Templar yanks his arm out of Selwyn's grip, hard enough that when Selwyn does not hold on at all the knight has to stumble to keep his feet.

Selwyn steps forward at once, hands fluttering like birds. “Oh! Be careful, ser, or you'll fall again! It would be so embarrassing if you--”

“ _Maker!_ Keep off, I'm _fine_!”

And the Templar strides out of the library, leaving Selwyn standing alone in the middle of the floor.

It is absolutely silent. Varania is acutely aware that there are still Templars about, though she notes that none of them seem particularly concerned.

Selwyn plants his fists on his hips and shakes his head dolefully. “That poor, _poor_ man,” he murmurs, though again it is loud enough to be heard throughout the room. “Perhaps it is the flux. I can only hope that he doesn't shit himself before he-- oh, well.”

The apprentices are practically smothering themselves trying not to laugh, and Varania notes that many of the mages are likewise staring down at their books with a hand over the mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Selwyn sits down again, sighing to himself, but when he glances up and catches her watching he flashes her a grin that is thoroughly unrepentant.

She turns back to her book. It is a useless exercise, a camouflage, just a means of fitting in, and perhaps this is obvious to the others, where it is not obvious to the Templars, because presently another book is placed carefully next to hers and flipped open at a page with an illustration of a dog chasing rabbits.

She looks up. Selwyn smiles, and sinks into the chair beside her. “Hullo,” he says. “Thought you might like something a little less tedious than _Musings of Geriastus the Elder_.”

She glances down at her book. She has no idea what it is about; perhaps Selwyn (she does not yet know his name, though she recognises his cut-glass eyes) is telling the truth. Then again, perhaps he means to make a fool of her. It would be petty of him. Perhaps he _is_ petty. The pranking seems to suggest it.

“Do you dislike Geriastus?” It is hard, sometimes, speaking to humans. A lifetime of ingrained subservience attempts to finish every sentence with 'Master' or ‘Magister’ or ‘Citizen’, but she is, they tell her, no longer a slave, and even in Tevinter there were enough humans sold into slavery that this ought not to be such a difficult habit to break. These humans, however, are unlike the human slaves she has known. Even though they bow their heads to the Templars, she can sense the roiling disquiet in them, the rejection of their lot that foreshadows rebellion.

Dangerous. It would be best not to become involved. And yet.

“Geriastus is a dreary old git,” Selwyn tells her, speaking out of the side of his mouth and bending over the page until his hair brushes the paper. “He always sounds like he's talking down his nose at you. 'That which cannot be fought by fire must be bound by fire, though fire is not in the least or in the most the answer to all things under the eye of the _Maker_ , may His song be sung in the highest, and so it cannot be held to have the efficacy of,' uuuurgh,” and he tilts his head, rolling his eyes up at her dramatically.

It is thoroughly ridiculous, but she has been starved of companions long enough to find him entertaining, and some of it must show in her face because his mouth quirks up on one side.

“Oh, good. You _are_ human. Er, sorry.” And he blinks very quickly, inexplicable shame washing over his face. “I meant … well, I wondered if you might be some kind of, ah, automaton. But I didn't mean ...” and he pulls a remorseful grimace that makes him look very young. “Forgive me, please, I'm an ass.”

Ah. It is amusing to realise that a human is apologising to her for her own inability to _be_ human, and again this must show because he wrinkles his nose.

“Can we start over? I'm Selwyn.”

He holds out his hands, both of them, with the palms down, and Varania isn't quite sure what to do with them so she holds out her own, palms also down. “I am Varania.”

This seems to be not quite right, because Selwyn lets out a small sound that might be laughter but might also be exasperation, and flips his hands over to take hers. “I know,” he says, “everyone knows,” and then he pushes a little magic against her fingers in a way that is both intrusive and _not_ , though she can't define how.

Still, it is startling, like a man putting his palm on her thigh, and she snatches her hands away.

This, it seems, was the wrong thing to do. “Oh!” He closes his hands into fists, and something in his expression tells her that he is hurt. “Well, then.” He bites his lip. “Sorry, I thought--” but he breaks off, and then he leans away, and she _knows_ he is about to get up and go, though she doesn't know why.

“Please,” she says, though once the word is out of her mouth she can't fathom why she would have said it. But. If he goes, then she will be alone again, and that is something she does not want, not when he has made such an effort to introduce himself. “Please, don't go.”

He turns back. The confusion in his face is not even slightly comical. Then he places a hand on the table between them, dark fingers flat against the wood. “All right.”

“I do not mean to offend,” she says, and the effort it takes not to end that with 'Master' is almost physical.

He is very still for a moment, and then he shakes his head, that small smirk curling the edge of his mouth again. “Well, I know how _that_ feels.” Then his smirk broadens into a proper smile. “ _Hullo,_ ” he says again, and there's such humour in it that she can't help but smile back at him.

Later, he explains the Circle greeting and she takes his hands and they share magic, and it is actually very pleasant, and not something she has ever done before.

Much later, she realises that this was the moment in which they began to become friends.

Selwyn, she discovers, is a creature of distracting words and smiles, practised in his deceptions, but he turns them mostly on Templars because, as he puts it, the Templars are an acceptable target. “And I'm so _bored_ ,” he tells her, lolling on a bench in the sun on a day they have a little time to linger in one of the gardens. “What else am I going to do?”

“Exist,” she says, smoothing her robes over her hips. The robes are a still-new luxury, not exactly new themselves but elegant. She loves the feel of them on her skin, the fresh-laundered smell of them, the silky decadence of clothes that are clean and well-tailored. Selwyn chuckles and tweaks her skirts, spreading his legs in a thoroughly shameless manner as he reclines against the bench, half shoved up against her arm.

The physical closeness of the Circle mages is another new thing. Slaves know they have no privacy, but they do not _invite_ closeness in the way that Circle mages do by default. Selwyn does not seem to think that keeping his hands to himself is expected; rather he will loop an arm around her neck and pull her in to whisper, or tuck his hand about her waist and laugh against her shoulder and it is so very … pleasant. Perhaps because when she does slap his hands away, he holds them up, eyes shining, accepting his guilt with an even temper.

He does not press. She likes this about him.

And then, one night, he lingers in her doorway, eyes dancing, and she _knows_ this, and it would be such a small thing to give him.

“Will you come in?” she says. He hesitates, suddenly shy, glancing up at her from beneath such long dark eyelashes that she wonders why he would bother with someone as insignificant as she.

“I won't,” he says softly, “if you don't want.”

It is hard to tell if she wants or not, but she is not _un_ willing, and so she offers her hand and he grins at her, and then--

This is something that is done, something slaves do, to forge a bond, and so she will let him rut against her if that is what it takes to secure his friendship. But he surprises her with his soft, sweet kisses, and then surprises her again when it seems that all he wants is to curl against her and play with the scant bounty of her breasts. He does _play_ , though, easing her robes open and tucking his hands inside, and then he teases her, pinching the pink peaks of her flesh until she has to smother a cry against his shoulder.

“Shhhh,” and he kisses her cheek. “You beautiful thing. Do you trust me?”

Does she? She tells him yes, regardless, and then he does _something_ that reverberates through her flesh, leaving her gasping.

“Do you like it?”

This time, when she tells him yes, she _means_ it, and he does it again, and again, his magic travelling down every nerve until she cannot bear it, and shudders oh so helplessly against him.

He strokes it out of her, and then, another surprise, is happy to rub himself off on her thigh.

It is so unexpected that she tells him so, and he does not laugh, though she can feel him quivering, because this is not a time for laughter.

“You don't want the rest,” he says, eyes bright in the dimness of her room. “And I don't need it either.”

He mops up his mess with a handkerchief drawn from his sleeve, and then offers her another for herself. “I always carry two,” he says, and the ludicrousness of it makes her giggle, and then laugh, and then they are laughing together, hands pressed against their own mouths for the sake of silence, and

it is

lovely.

But it isn't love.

It becomes something they do, time to time, and afterwards he will curl against her and run his fingers through her hair – sometimes she protests because his hands are sticky, and he sniggers and presses his face into the hollow of her throat. “You were going to wash your hair in the morning _anyway_ ,” he says. “I never met anyone so obsessed with baths.”

“I would not call what you people do _bathing_ ,” she argues, squirming around to nestle in his arms. It is comforting. _He_ is comforting, and part of that is because while they do these things together he never pushes too far, never asks for the thing that she would let him have but which she does not want herself.

One night, a night in which they do not touch each other salaciously in the dark, he tells her some of the things that have been done to him that _he_ did not want. They are trivial, she thinks, given the excesses she has seen, and heard, and known herself in Tevinter. But they have hurt him, and regardless of the extent of them they are of the same kind. He does not seem to want comfort, and she does not know how to give it, but their hands brush against one another and there is a companionship in this that _is_ a comfort.

There are things she does not want, and things she does want, and the things she does with him are _wanted_. This, she thinks, makes all the difference.

Being his friend has other benefits. He introduces her to enchanters, to mages, to apprentices, and many of them accept her, despite the stigma of Tevinter that hangs over her like a shroud. 

Though, not all.

“Don’t _worry_ ,” Selwyn tells her, offering a handkerchief (she resolutely does not wonder where it has been). “Marylind hates Orlesians, too, if it’s any consolation.”

“It is not,” Varania hisses. And-- “I am not weeping, Selwyn.” _I am not so weak_.

“You can if you like.” He sits up on the windowsill, leaning back against the bars and kicking one heel against the wall. “It’s just us, and I won’t tell anyone.”

They are tucked away in a study that has not been cleaned in some time, disused and dusty. Selwyn has impressed on her the importance of knowing where these places are, forgotten nooks in which to take refuge, and how important it is _not to be caught alone_. (But, also, not to be caught in groups larger than three; without a Templar to supervise it is ‘unauthorised private congregation’ and whatever happened next would be up to the discretion of the Templar who caught them.)

“I am not _upset_.” It is a lie. “I am furious.” True. “Her remarks make no sense. The stink of fish is from the harbour, not _me_. It is a slander. I _bathe_.”

“I know.” Selwyn takes her hand, pushing his fingers between hers and smiling. “More than that Fereldan bitch. You know, you _could_ just fling it back in her face. Tell her she’s probably smelling her own smalls. Or mention fleas -- she hates that.”

 _This_. It is not that Varania has never played this game, it is simply that she has no _context_ for it. In Tevinter the distinctions had been different: house slaves against field slaves; freeborn against slaveborn; body slaves against drudges; pets against everyone, because no-one could hate or be hated like a _pet_. Slaves who had borne children that were useful, and slaves who had borne children that were not. 

And, always, her brother who had been something else again.

Still, it makes Varania _think_. “Does she hate me because I am Tevene, or because I was apostate?”

“Both, probably. Tevinter Magisters are everybody’s favourite fantasy, of course. That’s why,” and he makes a series of chopping gestures that are clearly meant to embody the grand farce that was Magister Danarius’ execution. “ ‘Don’t get any funny ideas,’ is what they mean. That’s why your friend is wandering about with his third eye.” The twitch of Selwyn’s mouth wars with the nonchalance of his tone. “An ugly reminder.”

“And I am evidence of that fantasy’s flaws,” Varania concludes. It rankles, but it makes sense; a cherished dream shattered, and the pieces spat upon. No wonder that some might blame her for it. And yet. “Perhaps this is something I ought to embrace.”

“Oh? Cordial from lemons, hey?” He cocks his head, lifting his eyebrows and _smiling_ \-- so many smiles from him, all so careless.

“If I am believed to be … infamous in my apostasy, then perhaps I should wear my infamy as a cape.”

“You could do that.” He lifts a shoulder, looks her over in his quick, clever way. “Could be risky. Might draw attention.”

She meets his gaze steadily, keeping her face carefully impassive. “As though you do not.”

“Ah! Yes.” He grins. “There is that.”

“I cannot imagine it makes you popular with the Templars,” she says, and regrets it for the shadow that passes over his face.

“Well. It’s a good idea to have a Templar or two on your side.”

It makes perfect sense. “Are there any?”

He hesitates, smoothing his robes over his thighs. “Of course, Cullen’s all right, as far as it goes. He puts a stop to things he can _see_. But he hates us, and sometimes I don’t think he looks very hard. Kinloch Hold,” he says, as if she ought to understand. “Agatha’s a terrier when she smells a rat. She doesn’t like me much, but she’s saved my skin a few times anyway. She’s such a stickler for rules, both ways. Thrask is decent enough, but he’s about as useful as a spent cock. Emeric looks out for the girls as best he can, though Ser Alrik,” and his mouth twists. “Stay _away_ from Ser Alrik.”

“As you have said.” Selwyn likes being touched, so she touches him, stroking the side of his face until the scowl smooths away. “I will avoid him.”

“Some of the junior knights are pretty good, but again … you need someone with clout. Someone who’ll make _sure_ you’re all right. Someone who’ll look out for you.” 

Which has its price, she is certain. “Someone is looking out for you.”

“No-o … not presently. I had thought,” and he shrugs, “or hoped, I suppose, but … it didn’t work out how I planned.”

It is a fragile existence. Varania can feel the tension in it, the fear spiking like lightning through the mages when a Templar turns their way. And they are _everywhere_. There are Templars in the dining hall, the library, the hallways, the bathing rooms, the latrines. It is familiar. She can _do_ this.

“And in the absence of protectors,” she says, covering Selwyn’s hand with her own, “we should hold fast to one another.”

“Yes.” He tips his hand up, lacing their fingers together. “Mages together against the world?”

She takes his advice. It the wisest course.

The part she has chosen is not difficult to play. She is meek and dutiful when that is expected, but whenever another mage makes mock of her she arches easily into a fair imitation of a haughty freeborn-turned-lady’s-companion, strange as she likes and _proud_ of it. The others tend to back down. Selwyn seems entertained, but he does not commit to an opinion on whether or not it is wise. She likes that.

And he continues to introduce her: wild-eyed Jarissa, over a tray of chopped herbs; rakish scarred Liam, as they file into the commissary; two women with hair as grey as her mother’s but still tall and _strong_ ; another elf, his hands deft but naturally curling into round spools, as though the bones have been broken and left unset time and again. They have a familiarity to them that Varania recognises and does not want to associate with. Malcontents. The ones who run.

Running is too dangerous and she will not risk it. She has heard what happens to the ones who _run_.

Keili is not like the others. She is quiet, meek, unobtrusive, and Varania feels certain that Keili has no idea how beautiful she is, hidden under that cowl. She is not the only one to wear a cowl, of course, many of the Circle mages do. Selwyn always shoves his back, letting it hang uselessly against his shoulders, but Keili wears hers like a crown.

Keili is a teacher. She is too inexperienced, apparently, to take particular apprentices of her own, and yet she teaches them, taking them through the rudiments of magic with an ineffable patience that Varania can hardly comprehend. They are so _stupid_ , so careless, but Keili coaxes them until they can manage themselves, can harness the force bubbling at their fingertips into something that should be feared.

This is how they meet. Selwyn takes Varania into one of Keili's classrooms, blunders in as though it is his right, and Varania is struck by how calmly Keili takes this intrusion, how quietly she tells the apprentices to be still. Moreso, how easily the apprentices obey her. This woman is so _gentle_. Surely the normally rowdy apprentices will run roughshod over her like soldiers in a flower garden, and yet …

Keili holds up a hand. The children stop crowding around Selwyn, clearly abashed, and settle back in a circle on the floor as quickly as though they had been shouted down by a Templar. Faster, perhaps.

Varania takes a seat at the back, outside the circle, and Selwyn looks faintly ashamed of himself for having made such a scene.

Keili does not raise her voice, just holds out her hand, inviting this time. “Tamika? Will you show everyone how to make a barrier?”

The girl, a lanky, dark little thing, stands up. “Yes, miss.”

So, one after the other, the children show off how well they can take a moderate portion of magic and channel it into a harder-than-rock barrier. Keili guides them every step of the way, even the ones who can barely manage a shield the size of their palm; she shores them up until they can manage it on their own, small but _solid_ , and Varania feels oh so envious of them for having a teacher who seems bent only on seeing them succeed, and not on displaying her own strength.

When the lesson is done and the children dismissed into the care of the Templar in attendance, Selwyn asks Keili to show Varania her own shield, and Keili looks up.

Andraste's _kiss_ , she is _beautiful_.

Varania looks away, but she glances back again in time to see the faintest of smiles on Keili's face, and then Keili stands. She is tall – well, she is _human_ , of course she's tall – and graceful in her stance, one foot forward, the other braced behind her as if to take the force of a blow.

“Mage Varania,” she murmurs, and it shivers down Varania's spine like the brush of fingertips. Maker, her magic. Oh, holy Maker, what is _this_?

“Varania,” Selwyn says, perched on a stool against the wall, hands clasped loosely in his lap, “is a spirit mage.”

Keili's eyes flicker sideways, and there is a fondness in them that makes Varania feel oh-so-insignificant, so very external to this, whatever it is that they are doing. The outsider, again. But, she is used to it, and so she steels herself.

“That is unfair,” Keili says softly. “Selwyn, don't be cruel.”

“I just want to see what you two do,” Selwyn protests, though he does it lazily, leaning back against the wall and grinning. “Come on, you won't _brutalise_ each other. And, if you do, I'll heal you. You know that.”

Keili shakes her head, very gently. “Mage Varania, you don't have to put up with this. He's a _monster_.”

Something about this is so familiar, so very right. They are going to duel, which is, Varania thinks, something that _Magisters_ do. And … why shouldn't they? They're mages, after all.

Suddenly, she realises that they are three mages alone, together, with no Templars to tell them what they should or should not be doing. Three mages, alone.

It's just right.

“Do not discount me,” she says, sliding off her stool and spreading her arms. “I may be a _spirit mage_ ,” whatever that means, “but I am not afraid of you.”

Keili seems surprised, eyes widening, and then she smiles. “Did he tell you that the arcane school isn't _all_ I do? I teach it, but … he didn't tell you anything, did he?”

Varania doesn't care. This talk of schools means nothing to her, all the words are wrong. Spirit mage? Varania is _Tevene_ , and in her tongue what she can do is the Death of a Thousand Cuts, the Rending of Souls, the Burning Plague … and she hesitates, because none of those things are _anything_ she wants to do to Keili.

She doesn't know _what_ she wants to do to Keili, but it isn't that.

“ _If you are too weak to face me, then I will accept your surrender,_ ” she says, and it is only when Keili's brow creases that she realises that she did not speak those words in Common.

But the intent must have been clear because Keili shifts her stance, ever so slightly, and then--

It feels _so good_ to do magic, here in this place where magic is allowed. The crackle of Keili's casting gusts across Varania's skin and it is _so easy_ to duck and call a bolt of soul-fire to toss recklessly into the air.

But. Whatever Keili has cast snuffs it out, and then there is the sudden thud of _force_ as Varania is yanked off her feet and dragged heavily across the floor. Another thud, and the world slows to a crawl, and it _hurts_ but it is _good_ , and oh-so-slowly she tumbles into Keili's arms, just a wisp of mortal flesh tugged off its axis.

Everything happens so slowly, inexorably, the warm press of a body against her own, turning to look up into the face of a woman who could _destroy her_. If she wanted. If she needed.

And then, in a small thunderclap, it's gone. Varania is loose, helpless, caught in this human embrace that is so very--

The magic judders and _snaps_ , two things coming suddenly into alignment like, like, she has no idea but it is _perfect_ and

Holy Andraste it is

just

this

The door slams open, there is a _Templar_ , and Varania twists, hands ready to go _down onto the floor_ and _why?_ but also _of course_ because she is surrounded by humans and she has been so very, very bad.

A bad slave.

“What the _void_?”

The knight is a woman, hair cut short and functional but still a woman. And yet she is a _knight_ , and Varania feels again the urge to curl up on herself, to be as insignificant as possible, to present the smallest target for the anger of a _human_. But Keili is warm and solid at her back, the halo of her magic spreading to slide over Varania’s skin like armour, like a whisper, _You’re safe, don’t worry, I’m here._

And there is Selwyn. “Moira! You gorgeous thing. How's your sister? Leg doing better, I hope.”

The knight looks at each of them in turn and then makes a sound that is very near to a laugh. “ _Selwyn_. Tell me I didn't just walk into a catfight over _you_.”

It makes no sense, but Selwyn chuckles. “Maker, please let me one day be so fortunate! Sadly, no. It's just a lesson.”

Ser Moira snorts, and lifts a hand as if she might be intending to ruffle Selwyn's hair. “You’d try it if you could, eh?” She casts an amused glance at Keili and Varania, which smooths out into something else. “What kind of magic are you teaching, Keili?” She sounds … Varania is unsure what that is, but Keili’s hand is on her hip and it tightens, just a little.

“Force, ser,” Keili says, her voice smooth and steady.

Varania does not know why the woman flinches, nor why she takes such a deep breath, but it does not matter. “Right. Carry on, then. Just … keep the door open, so no-one thinks you’re up to anything.”

When she has gone, leaving the door swung wide, Selwyn turns to them with such a lewd grin Varania can’t help but frown at him.

“Well, _well_. That went off all right, I think.”

“Only because she knows I have a teaching pass and a perfect record.” Keili doesn’t sound angry, just mildly exasperated. “You’re always trying to get me into trouble, I should never listen to you.”

“Oh, that. No I meant _this_ ,” and he gestures, gaze angling down to where Varania realises she has covered Keili’s hand with her own and not even noticed. It is the magic, she thinks; enveloped as she is it is hard to tell where one of them begins and the other ends, and her own magic has billowed up like smoke to twine through Keili’s until they are entangled.

Kelli laughs, her hand and her magic curling around Varania in a possessive twine. "Wasn't this what you intended, all along?"

"I didn't know it would be love-at-first-sight, no," he says, grinning like a madman. Maker, Kelli's magic feels like _home_. "But I did think you'd like each other."

Varania can't look up. She doesn't have to, feeling the firm press of magic against her flesh, clean and kind and refreshing. Kelli tucks her face into Varania's neck, and it is wonderful.

"We do," Varania says, though she has nothing to compare this to, is lost in the feel of it. "We do."

Kelli hums against her throat, and Varania looks up and then _oh_ , the line of her jaw, her nose, her cheek, and, like a shock, her _eyes_.

"At first sight," Selwyn says, sounding deeply satisfied. "How _romantic_!"

Varania cannot, smothered in magic. Maybe he's right.

Kelli smiles, offers up her other hand. "For you."

It might be a question. Varania takes it, nevertheless. "For you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The implied/referenced rape/non-con tag is there because, well, it's the Gallows. I think we all know what happens in the Gallows.

Varania has never felt like this, not once before, and now she feels it all the time. Keili walks into a room and Varania’s heart skips; Keili murmurs something close and private in Varania’s ear and it makes her shiver; Keili kisses Varania’s fingertips and, ah, it is exquisite.

Selwyn finds the whole thing hilarious. He is forever shuffling them into rooms together, contriving for them to find time alone, and then he smirks and teases and sighs melodramatically until he makes a thorough nuisance of himself.

“Why must you laugh?” Varania does not mean to sound petulant but perhaps she is. “This is _your_ fault.”

“That you’re in love?” He tweaks the hem of her sleeve, grinning cheekily. “I’ll take the blame for that, if you insist, but I refuse to be unhappy about it.”

“I am not ‘in love’.”

“Oh?” He cocks his head, eyeing her indiscreetly. They have found a spot in the gardens where no-one ever comes. Selwyn says it is because the wind cuts through in a beastly way, but Varania suspects it is a little too close to a guard-post of Templars for most people’s comfort. In any case, they have a little privacy, and whenever that is the case Selwyn becomes impossible in his observations. “Your hair is very fetching today. I like the braids. However did you manage the back of it so neatly?”

Varania touches her hair, suddenly self-conscious. “I … it was Keili who did it for me.”

“Mmm, I thought it might have been. And your belt, it used to be plain. When did you find the time to stitch it over with … are those supposed to be daffodils?”

“It was Keili who … oh, I see.” Varania draws herself up, frowning into his laughter. “So you mock me for the time I spend with her, for her gifts.” 

“I mock you for not knowing you are in _love_ with her.” But his expression softens, even as he tugs annoyingly at her sleeve again. “At least, so it looks like. Don’t let them know,” he adds, turning serious. “They’ll use it against you if they do.” 

He does not need to say who ‘they’ are, not when they are all around, clanking past in their monstrous armour. Being under guard by freemen is nothing new to her, but the Templars … they are both like and unlike the house guards in Tevinter, unlike because they believe what they are doing is right. No guard in Tevinter would claim the same; in Tevinter it is just a fact, that some are slaves and some are not and slaves must be corralled. It isn’t ‘right’. It is a thing that is. A true and terrible thing.

“I don’t know,” she says, feeling weak, “what it means to be in love.”

The look on Selwyn’s face might be pity, or something else. “It’s good. Don’t worry about it. I only tease out of envy, you know that.”

That he would be envious, he with his jokes and pranks and wicked smiles. His handsome face. It makes no sense.

But Keili makes sense, even when Varania does not understand how. Just to be near her is wonderful, and Varania takes every opportunity to do so.

It does not take long for Varania to realise that something must be done about Ser Mettin.

Keili says nothing about him, but it is obvious. With Varania so often by her side Keili does not _need_ to say a word; Varania sees it all and she does not like it. The way he leers, the closeness in the way he stands; his hands, always, touching Keili and the way Keili flinches away from him; Varania sees it and she resolves that _something_ must be done.

It comes to a head one day when they are the two of them, Keili and Varania, taking a little time in an empty classroom to summon lightning and pass it back-and-forth between their hands. It takes concentration, control, attention to detail to spark the bright energy from one finger to another, and more to spark it from one of _them_ to the other. This piece of lightning they have passed back and forth thirty-five times, but when Ser Mettin blunders in Keili drops it immediately, and Varania starts because they were so close to their record that she had been _distracted_. 

Ser Mettin is a threat, she knows, so she bows to him, and hates him quietly. Still, her ears ring with magic and--

“Having a good time, girls?” 

Keili always gives him his way, so Varania resolves not to. “No,” she says, colouring her tone with exasperation, as though he is a nuisance to be rid of. “This is a difficult lesson, ser knight, and I cannot master it. How much easier it is to call a fireball than to skip a tiny shred of lightning.” In case he has forgotten that she _is_ a mage.

He glances at her and frowns. “You two are always about together. Don’t you have any other friends, elf?”

“I do, messere.” Varania curtsies again. “We are due to meet them here on the moment, if you will wait for them.”

He glares at her, but does not catch the lie. “Then, you should stay. Keili, a word with you.”

“Mage Keili is under report,” Varania lies again, and where does it come from? She feels so bold. “I have been given the task of supervision, today. I must make a glass-by-glass report, and so Mage Keili can go nowhere without me.”

Mettin looks concerned. “Report? Keili … what did you do?”

Neither Varania nor Keili are fooled by his supposed concern. “Messere. It is indelicate.” Keili plays along but does not look up, and Varania hears her tone and it reminds her _so hard_ of Minrathous that she flinches and, Maker, how she hates him.

How dare he make Keili a _slave_?

He goes, eventually, but the feeling does not go. Varania cannot let go of it, and later, in the dark of her room she curls her hands in her lap and asks Keili how Ser Mettin has misused her.

Keili seems disquieted, mouth twisting this way and that. “There is no point in worrying about Ser Mettin.”

“He troubles you,” Varania insists, but Keili puts her hand on Varania’s wrist, and the pulse of magic beneath her skin is a comfort. Still. “He _accosts_ you.”

Keili laces Varania’s fingers with thin threads of Spirit. “He is one of many dangers in the Gallows. No worse than the temptations of demons.”

It is a joke. It must be. “You are too wise to be fooled by their paltry temptations.” But Keili does not smile; she frowns and it makes Varania’s gut wrench because… no. “They are false promises. No-one ever profited from giving in to a demon.”

“I know, and I know it a heresy, yet … sometimes the temptation is great.”

She sounds ashamed of this, and Varania cannot bear it. She lifts a hand to brush Keili’s cheek, and asks, “What do they offer you?” thinking, _If it is companionship then let_ me.

But Keili’s eyes are unreadable, so human. “You have been Harrowed,” she says, calm and cool, how can she be so cool? “What did they offer _you_?”

“The usual. Power. Freedom. As though _they_ could deliver either one.”

“And the unusual?” Keili’s magic skims around Varania’s wrist like a quicksilver bracelet, like a string of bells, and Varania knows it is useless to hide. “There is always something, something we really do want. Demons are much cleverer than we expect. It is arrogance for a mage to think otherwise.”

It is too painful. “Leto. The demon said … but Leto is lost, and there is no having him back.” She takes a deep breath. “I will never see Tevinter again, and I will never see Leto again.”

Keili nods, the loop of magic tightening against Varania’s skin. “He was your lover?”

Varania shakes her head, but she cannot say it. The words won’t come. Keili, it seems, does not need them, just leans in to rest her cheek against Varania’s, tugging the cloak of her magic around them both like great soft wings.

“They offer me freedom,” she whispers. “Vengeance. They offer me the power to burn.”

The magic shifts, heats, and Varania feels it coil the length of her, this hot mess of threads that pulse with _threat_ , and it is as thrilling as it is terrifying. “To burn what?”

Keili sighs, shakes her head. “Ser Mettin. Ser Alrik. Knight Commander Meredith. The Gallows. Everything. Everything into dust.”

It is easy now to raise a cloud of Entropy, insinuate it into the weave of Keili’s Spirit-cloak and let it rest. Soothing. Calming. _It will be all right._ “They lie to you. They do not have the power to grant you that. All they want is a door.”

“Is it true? Selwyn is a Spirit Healer. I have heard … there are good spirits. We dare not say it here, but in Kinloch Hold it was known. Not all of them are demons.”

Varania knows nothing of Kinloch Hold, but she knows demons. “They are all of them dangerous.”

“All people are dangerous.” Keili touches her lips to Varania’s cheek, then lower. “ _This_ is dangerous,” and she kisses her, and her mouth is warm and soft and, ah Maker! She is so sweet, like rainwater at sea.

Varania does not know how to do this, has never wanted to, but kissing Keili seems natural, so _easy_. She wants more, and Keili lets her take it, lets Varania run her hands down the boning in Keili’s bodice, lets her smooth her palms over Keili’s hips, lets her rest her head on Keili’s shoulder.

It is exciting, but not dangerous. Not in the way that Ser Mettin is dangerous, not in the way that demons are dangerous. Keili smells sweet, of fresh herbs and soap and magic, and Varania buries her face in Keili’s neck, burrowing in because … because she feels safe, here. With Keili. Even though Keili is human, and, and they are not equal, but they are _similar_ , and there is something Varania cannot pinpoint that makes Keili feel like … safe harbour. A welcome port in a storm. Varania has never felt so safe, never so _sure_.

She presses her mouth to Keili’s neck, kisses her way up to find Keili’s mouth once more, and then kisses her there. Keili tastes of lyrium and vegetable stew and faintly of wine, and it is normal. This is normal, now. This is Varania’s life. This is Keili.

The rush of Keili’s breath is like a tempest, and it stirs something in Varania that is … good. So very good. “Keili,” she says, small and weak, but Keili tucks an arm under Varania’s, pulls her in until they are flush against one another, and kisses her again, her mouth wide open and welcoming.

And then.

Lying one against the other on the bed, Varania finds one of her hands bunched up awkwardly beneath her and the other carding through Keili’s hair, and Keili’s eyes are bright beacons that -- Varania thinks it foolish, but if she were a ship she would sail toward them, would wreck herself on the rocks, if any, lying beneath the surface of the sea. To be wrecked here would be better than docking in any other place.

Her hand moves down, tangling in Keili’s collar, and she thinks, _Yes,_ and, _Oh, Maker, yes,_ losing herself in Keili’s sweet, sweet kisses.

Keili’s hands unfurl Varania’s robes, peeling her back and exposing her and all Varania can think is, _Please,_ and also, _Be careful,_ and also, _Maker, Maker, Maker, please…_

She is salty, and Varania is herself a creature of salt so how could she complain? Keili is bitter too, in the taste of her, but her bitterness is delicious, a treat, and Varania laps her up because she _loves_ her -- Selwyn was right, so very right.

Keili’s breasts are heavy against her in the dark, and Varania loves them, loves _her_ , and then she remembers how hard she had loved before and … it pinches, it _hurts_ , and she is crying, though she does not want to, and Keili’s arms are soft and fragrant around her, one hand smooth and soft behind her.

“Shhhh,” Keili whispers, fingers sure and strong and pushing up against the bones of Varania’s spine. “Don’t cry. Or … tell me why. Please, will you tell me?”

But Varania cannot, cannot spoil her safe harbour with the shipwrecks of her past, so she weeps into Keili’s shoulder, and Keili does not anger, does not reject her, just holds on, her hands so firm that Varania feels weakened by them. By it. By _this_.

“I’m here,” Keili whispers, her mouth warm and close in Varania’s ear.

Varania will do anything for her. _Anything_ , to keep her safe.

So. Something must be done about Ser Mettin.

* * *

“Varania.”

She meets his eyes and feels herself flinch. “Carus.”

He nods, and his face is so _blank_ , dead and _nothing_ , and it is an abomination. “I require your assistance.”

She does not want to speak to him but, worse, she does not want to be _seen_ speaking to him; she hurries him into an empty room, a teaching room no-one is using, and then she folds her arms, her skin writhing with distaste for this. “Carus. What do you want of me?”

Tranquil Carus is so smooth, so _nothing_. It is difficult to remember him as he was before, so proud and so cruel. “Varania. We are siblings. Twice, now.”

He means once for Tevinter and once for their mage blood, or perhaps once because they were (however briefly) apprenticed to the same magister. She cannot be sure, and she also does not care for it. It is insignificant. She does not care. “What do you _want_ of me?” she asks, and she speaks Tevene with him out of habit though it is not something she means to do.

“I require your assistance. I will die if you do not.” He does not shift, does not alter his expression. He just opens his mouth and he says it, eyes dark and empty. “Ser Mettin will kill me, otherwise.”

Ah. Well, then. “Tell me, or I cannot help you.”

Carus does, a sordid story of ambushes and injuries, and worse things he does not explain but Varania knows. Maker’s _caul_ , she can guess. “What would you have me do?”

“What can you do?”

Nothing, she is almost sure. But. There is something even a slave can do. “I will need certain items if I am to do anything. Will you get them for me?” _Will you keep my secrets?_

“I have access to the stores,” Carus tells her, and he is so placid it sounds as he though is speaking of clouds in the sky. “It is probable that I can get for you some items you might need for this.”

Varania thinks about it for days. She takes her time, watching Ser Mettin in the yard, around corners and through windows, and thinking, _Your time may be very near._

And she seeks out opinion, to be sure that what she is planning is just.

“Ser Mettin?” Selwyn nudges her into an alcove in a corridor; they are supposed to be ornamental, Varania thinks, but she knows them largely as a convenient stop on a long walk, or as a trysting place. She rolls her eyes at Selwyn, but he leans against her, affecting a romantic mien, though his eyes are anything but. “You _know_ what I think of him.”

“He is a beast,” Varania offers, and all she wants is for him to agree, but instead his brow tightens and he ducks in to speak into the space below her ear. 

“He’s a monumental _fuck_ ,” Selwyn says, low and private. “He’s been across my healing table twice, and both times I’d have let him die if I could have got away with it. If no-one were watching,” and he grins, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, “I’d stop his heart myself. _That’s_ what I think of Ser Mettin.” He settles back, smiling his dark, handsome smile, and Varania cannot help the hand she twists in the collar of his robes. “Oh? What’s this?” He grins, leaning down to nip her knuckles with his teeth. “Not worried about me, are you? Don’t, I’m perfectly fine.”

“And Keili?” Varania hadn’t meant to; it comes out of her mouth all by itself.

Selwyn makes a face. “Keili’s doing all right, isn’t she? She always _says_ so.”

“I am … uncertain.”

“Well, you’d know.” Selwyn frowns. “If anyone.” And he pauses, watching her with sharp, dark-lashed eyes. “You aren’t planning anything dire, are y--”

She smothers his mouth with her fingers, and then she worries that her hands may smell of _Keili_. Her whole self seems to, these days. “I would not tell you if I _were_.”

His broad mouth broadens into a grin. “Oh, of _course_ not.” He nips at her fingertips, undeterred as always. “I’d gut him, if it were me.” His tone is light, but the tension in his jaw is anything but. “I’d feed him to the sharks. If I could but reach them.”

Varania cannot reach the _sharks_ , but she knows how to deal with something such as this. Or, rather, she knows how she might deal with it if this were Tevinter.

Her chores take her to the pharmacy, where she chops elfroot and grinds deep mushrooms, and sometimes shreds deathroot, and whenever it is _deathroot_ she tucks a little into a pocket in her sleeve. She hides her contraband under a loose stone in one of the abandoned teaching rooms, folded in paper, and makes sure to wash her fingers very well afterwards. The other ingredients are harder to come by, but one hot afternoon an apprentice mistakes fire crystal for frostrock and in the resulting smoke and chaos Varania steals a phial of toxin extract from the Senior Enchanters’ workbench. It is harder to hide; in the end she works open the spine of a book of minor cantrips, pushing the phial into the binding, and puts it in plain sight on a shelf. It will have to be enough. It is all she can do.

She must rely on Carus for the rest, and the waiting is torturous. What if he is caught? Will he turn her in? She cannot be sure; he is Tranquil and the Tranquil cannot be trusted to think as a person does.

But he pulls her aside on a day when she has almost given up on him, and shows her one small bottle of corrupter agent and one small flask of wine, and she is so grateful that she squeezes his hands in hers. “Thank-you.”

“It is in the best interests of all of us,” he says, flat and dull and unnerving. “When will you act?”

“It is best that you not know,” she tells him, earning herself a nod.

They do not speak again.

A sevenday goes by, and Varania has not yet decided how to implement her plan when, unexpectedly, Ser Mettin provides her with an opportunity.

“Elf,” he says, gruff and brutish, beckoning as though summoning a dog. She goes, heart thudding painfully, but he barely even glances at her. “You’re friends with Keili. Why’s she so busy all of a sudden?”

“Mage Keili is being considered for her Enchanter’s cowl,” Varania tells him truthfully enough. “Senior Enchanter Timony and the First Enchanter are judging her merit. It takes much of her time.”

Ser Mettin looks surprised. Then he frowns. “Right. Then you can give her this. I know you girls see each other after curfew,” and that is a threat of sorts, a reminder that he has the power to expose them and ruin whatever happiness they have here. Varania nods, and accepts the small cloth-wrapped bundle tied neatly with twine. 

“Is this a gift, ser knight?”

He looks uncomfortable. “Yeah. Tell her … tell her there’s more of that, if she wants it. If she’ll come see me.”

Varania does not smile. He does not look at her in any case, just strides off, armour clanking heavily with every step.

Varania takes the bundle to her room and opens it and it is _lyrium_. Not the weak solutions given to mages but strong and bright and blue as a summer sky. It is _dangerous_ , not only in itself but because of the Sword of Mercy stamped into the wax seal. This is a Templar ration. To be caught with this … She does not know what to do with it, considers pouring it out the window, but lyrium does not drain into the earth like other liquids, it sits in a gleaming pool like quicksilver and she cannot hide it that way.

She wraps it in a shirt and stuffs it into a vent, and hopes no-one comes looking.

When she goes back to Ser Mettin she _does_ smile, lifting her chin to make sure that he sees it. “Mage Keili thanks you for the gift, ser knight.” He looks pleased. “She will see you, but she fears discovery. Perhaps you will be willing to meet her somewhere private?”

And now he looks eager. “Really? Where, then?” She tells him, and he is sceptical for a moment but then he shrugs. “All right. If it’s caves and sewers she likes, I’ll not argue.”

He really is very, very stupid.

Selwyn has told her how to get into the tunnels beneath the Gallows, and as she makes her way down there she cannot stop her hands from shaking. They shake so much that she nearly drops the wine, fumbles to keep it from smashing open on the rocks at her feet. It scares her badly; her whole plan will come to nothing without the wine, and she sets it firmly on the rough table in the underground alcove she has found for this, sets beside it the cup, arranges the chair, lights the candle, and waits.

She does not have to wait long. Ser Mettin truly is eager, it seems, and seems disappointed to find her there, glancing about for Keili. “What are you doing here?”

Varania has to swallow before she can speak. “Mage Keili has been delayed. She will be here shortly. She sends her apologies and this wine, that you will not grow too weary of waiting.”

He looks at the cup she has poured for him, and then at her, and his expression hardens. “Does she, now?” 

It is not a true question. Varania’s pulse jumps when he picks up the cup and sniffs at it. Perhaps he is not so stupid after all. 

He thrusts the cup at her, eyes suspicious and awful. “Drink from this.”

She blinks at him, though she expected this might happen. “Ser knight?”

“I’m not drinking some bloody wine you _give_ me, unless it’s safe. So. Drink. Or I’ll make you.”

She knows better than to argue. The cup is heavy in her hands, but the wine is sweet on her tongue, and it goes down more easily than the sharp dreck they serve with meals here. She takes a good swallow of it, and offers the cup back to him, looking up to meet his eye. It is important to meet his eye, she knows it, and it must work because he takes the cup back from her, watching as she curtsies and steps away.

He seems satisfied; he settles into the chair, takes a gulp of wine, and then he considers her thoughtfully. “You’re a pretty thing,” he says. “For an elf. That hair normal in Tevinter?”

He must mean the redness of it. “It is not unusual.”

“You were a slave, they say. Bet you did all kinds of things, if you were asked.”

“I performed all my tasks as I was ordered, ser knight.”

He snorts, tipping the wine up into his mouth. “They use you for bedwarming, then? Did you let your master fuck you?”

This is dangerous, but not as dangerous as suspicion. “I let my master do whatever he wished.”

“We’re your masters now,” he says, and his leer is obvious and familiar. “You going to be a good girl for us?”

He is, at least, honest about it. Varania chooses her words carefully, and tries not to watch him too obviously as he drains his cup. “I am obedient, ser knight.”

He reaches for the bottle, refills his cup, and grins. “I bet you are. You know, I can make your life a lot easier. If you’re good.”

“Your kindness is surely pleasing to the Maker, ser knight.”

He chuckles, and it is grotesque. “Surely.” He has another gulp of wine. “How long is Keili going to be, then? Reckon we could have a bit of fun while we wait.”

“She will be here on the moment,” Varania says smoothly, hiding her hands behind her back lest they give her away, and if he tries she will let him because he is _drinking the wine_ , and that is all that matters.

He takes another swig. It should, she thinks, be having an effect by now, and when his next words are slurred she knows it is not only drunkenness. “You think you’re so clever. Quiet little thing. As if … ‘sif we don’t know you’re as bad as th’rest of ‘em. You don’t fffool me, elf. Can’t bloody fool _me_.”

Now she does look up, sees his hand falter, sees him frown. “I would not dare, ser knight.”

“This is _strong_ ,” he says, and then, when the cup tumbles from his hand he looks surprised. “Fuck, i’sstrong.”

Varania says nothing, just watches him. He reaches for the cup and overbalances, crashing to the ground heavily on one knee. “Shit.” He tries to push himself up, and he is armoured -- the idiot, who goes armoured to an assignation of this kind? The armour weighs him down, she can see it, and he cannot rise.

“You … help me.”

Varania stays quiet, takes a step back, and his eyes widen. 

“Elf. I said …”

“I heard you.” 

And he knows. She can see it in his face. His eyes are clouding over, though, and the rush of fierce elation that burns through her makes her knees weak. It’s _working_. “You … you _drank_...”

 _From the first cup,_ she thinks, vicious in the privacy of her own thoughts, _but it was in the_ bottle _, you cankerous twist, you undigested lump, you swollen boil!_

He tries again to stand, but cannot, and he slumps, face first onto the ground, and the rattle of his breath is gravel. He cannot speak, now. All he can do is twitch.

She waits until his breath is gone and the twitching has ceased, and then she kicks him to be sure but there is nothing, no moan, no protest, just nothing.

There. Done. It is done.

When she comes back to her room she finds Keili sitting on her bed, knees pulled up to her chin, and does not know what to say.

Keili does not ask, only holds out her arms, and Varania goes to her, buries her face in the loose softness of Keili’s hair, and her hands are still shaking but not for long.

“You have so many secrets,” Keili says at length, smoothing her hands down Varania’s back. “I wish … it would be foolish to wish to know them all, but I do.”

“There are things I do not want you to know,” Varania confesses, and Keili sighs, hugging her close.

“I know. But still. I wish you did.”

It is too much. Varania cannot tell her where she has been nor why her sleeve is speckled with wine, but there are things, perhaps, that she _should_ tell her. Things that now she feels she can.

“Leto,” she says, “was my son.”

It is another sordid story, but Keili has earned it, so Varania conceals nothing. She tells how her brother sold his soul to a Magister for her freedom, for her mother’s freedom, and how they were loosed like unwanted dogs into the streets of Minrathous. She tells how squalid it became, how her mother sickened, how Varania begged and stole and lifted her skirts to keep her, and how it shamed her when her mother died because the relief was like burning alive. After that, with magic budding cramped and stunted at her fingertips, she found a master, who used her only a little and taught her small and insignificant magics. Then she caught the eye of a freeman, a weaver, a _human_ who did not marry her but took her into his house all the same.

And then there was Leto. He was human in the ears, in the bridge of his nose, but his eyes were luminous and grey and beautiful and he was light on his feet, so quick and slender with small, clever hands and a laugh like running water. How she loved him. The weaver was a good enough man, strict but not unkind, but Varania lived for Leto, only Leto. There were no other children; Varania knew enough of herbs to make certain of that, because they could not afford it, but someday, yes, again someday. Maybe soon.

But then, the letter, and everything shattered.

“My master could not deny Danarius anything. Danarius did not ask me, he _ordered_. And if I did not … if I defied him, then Leto …”

Keili’s fingers and tight and warm around her own. “You chose.”

“How could I choose anything else?” How could she choose a brother who had been dead for ten years over her _son_?

“You could not,” Keili says softly. “Not and remain yourself.”

“Yes. I cannot be anything else.” She squeezes Keili’s hand. “Keili, do you love me?”

“Completely.”

“Even though?”

“No matter what.”

Keili never asks her where she had been, not when word comes out that Ser Mettin is missing, not when they find him, not ever, but Varania thinks she must know.

Things, such as they are, return to normal, such as that is. Keili is made an Enchanter, and allowed certain freedoms. She takes an apprentice of her own, a Rivaini girl with black hair and black eyes and a talent for Force magic. Varania is granted a teaching pass of her own, and permitted to walk small groups of new apprentices through the basics of Entropy. Together they tailor their robes, stitching panels of contrasting fabric into the skirts so they swirl riotously around their ankles as they walk. It begins a small craze in the Gallows, a brief fashion amongst the mages, and Varania finds herself making new friends. She catches herself laughing, sometimes, snickering into her palm when there are Templars about but openly at other times. She feels if not happy then content. She has not felt this way for so long.

And then she notices the way that Selwyn flinches whenever Ser Pereval is near. He refuses to answer questions, though, deflects them as usual, but she mislikes the wrench of his mouth whenever Ser Pereval smiles at him.

Well. Something must be _done_ about Ser Pereval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This all takes place before The Light Shall Lead. I'm thinking about detaching it from the Other Hawke series, if I can, and just linking to it because it's such a side-story. What do you think?
> 
> I'm interested to see if this makes Varania a more or a less sympathetic character. Who knows? It's out of my hands now, in any case.


End file.
